


Laundry

by JediDiplomat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-18
Updated: 2008-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediDiplomat/pseuds/JediDiplomat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Winchesters not even simple chores are simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry

He couldn't do it. He had no idea how Mary had ever managed. He'd rather be facing an entire legion of Viet Cong than deal with this. It wasn't that he considered this woman's work; it wasn't even that he didn't know what to do. The Marines had prepared him for the basics. Whites, darks, everything else. He'd even been in charge of the laundry when he and Mary were first married. It wasn't the laundry, it was the laundry in a laundromat with two small boys.

God help him, John loved his boys. He did. They were happy, healthy boys, both of them whip smart and active. Which, John thought privately, was the problem. It was easier when they were little, right after the fire. Dean wouldn't leave Sam's side, and Sam, well, he was somewhat stationary. Stick him in his carrier, plunk Dean next to him and John got the laundry done in record time. While John would never wish to go back to those dark times; he did acknowledge how much easier it was.

“Boys,” John called. Dean and Sam both stopped where they were and looked at him. John sighed, he couldn't blame them, it wasn't like it was exciting in the hot room. Both boys had been stripped down to their skivvies and Dean was entertaining Sam, unfortunately, he wasn't sure everyone else in the laundromat appreciated that fact.

“Daddy?” Dean asked, taking Sam by the hand and bringing him back to their table.

“Why don't you two color?” John suggested, trying to find some kind of activity that didn't involve them screaming at the top of their lungs. He only had one load left in the dryer. They could get through this.

“Daddy, they're already colored,” Dean pointed out. John sighed and knew that Dean didn't mean to make him feel like shit. What kind of father can't even provide his kids with unused coloring books.

“Ok, Dean, why don't you read to Sammy?” John said, pulling out a battered copy of Where the Wild Things Are. It'd been Dean's favorite book before the fire.

“ Sammy doesn't like that book,” Dean said quietly, climbing up to sit on the table. “Did you bring The Pokey Little Puppy?”

John ran a hand over Dean's head. He knew damn well that it wasn't Sammy that didn't like the book. Dean had been avoiding anything to do with Mary. If John was a better man, he'd make Dean deal with it, make him understand that just because Mary was gone, didn't mean they had to forget her, but John wasn't a good man. He couldn't even do laundry with two small children.

“ Yeah, Dean,” he said quietly, grateful to whomever had decided that Lil' Golden Books should only be a quarter. They boys had as many as he could keep in the car. Sammy wasn't quite ready for paper books yet, but Dean made sure that little Sammy didn't tear the pages. John had gotten a few of the cardboard books for Sammy at a church rummage sale but Dean had declared that Sammy thought the stories were for babies.

John picked up Sammy and set him on the table next to Dean. They were almost done, then they could go back to the tiny cabin they called home for another few weeks.

* * *

John scrubbed a hand over his face. There was no way he could leave the boys for the few hours it would take to do laundry. He'd been trying to get by as well as he could, doing socks and underwear in the sink. But Sammy had had an accident at the restaurant, and that had been his last pair of mostly clean jeans. Dean, John chuckled, Dean was at the age where he was allergic to anything soap related.

It'd been raining for most of the week, which meant the boys had been inside and going stir crazy. The motel room simply didn't have enough room for two young boys. He couldn't in good conscious inflict his boys on the unsuspecting people at the laundromat. Nor could he take them again in the middle of the night. Not after the screaming nightmare Dean had had the last time.

John glanced at the bathtub. He had some laundry soap from the last time he'd done laundry, and it'd probably be enough. He dumped the dirty bag out onto the bathroom floor. Everything had been washed over a dozen times, except some of Sammy's clothes, which were easy enough to wash in the sink. Tossing the clothes into the bathtub, he added the soap and water.

“Boys, c'mere,” John called. He heard the noise stop, and then hushed conversation before Dean peeked around the door.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Got a game for you and your brother,” John stated.

That got their attention. Sammy was soon crowding in next to his brother. “What is it?” Dean asked, looking at the bathtub suspiciously.

“I need you to do some of your best puddle stomping,” John said, lifting Sammy into the tub. Sammy looked startled at being in the tub with his clothes on but then he shrieked and started furiously stomping on the clothes.

Dean, unwilling to let Sammy have all the fun, scrambled into the tub after him. Together they stomped and giggled. John laughed as he kept a hand on Sammy and an eye on Dean. After a while, John flipped on the shower. No reason to have a separate bath time. Not when they were all getting soaked as it was.

Once the clothes were hanging over every available surface, John tucked the boys in with a rendition of Scruffy the Tugboat. Sam was already dozing curled up against John's side. Dean glanced up at him and said, “that was really fun, Dad. Can we help with the laundry all the time?”

* * *

Dean barely glanced up as he stuffed his clothes in the washer.

“They'll end up pink,” John warned, as he sets his own clothes on the table next to Dean's duffel.

“Whatever,” Dean mumbled.

“I'm not buying you new clothes when you ruin these,” John snapped. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “He made his choice, son. You gotta let--”

“I don't have to do anything,” Dean snarled, shoving the clothes harder into the washer. “Especially if you tell me I gotta let him go.”

John bit back a sigh, “getting angry at me isn't gonna solve anything.”

“Then point me to some evil sons of bitches I can shoot.”

John fell silent and started to separate the laundry into piles. The same ones that he'd always made. Whites, lights and darks. Simple, easy. Something at this point he could do in his sleep. He probably had at some point.

“Do you think he's all right?” Dean asked, his voice just above a whisper.

John swallowed hard and nodded. “We'd have heard something if he wasn't.”

“There's more than,” Dean swallowed hard.

John reached out and squeezed Dean's shoulder. “He'll be fine. You taught him everything he knows.”

Dean nodded, “Yeah, I know. That's what worries me.” Sheepishly he held up a pair of jeans. John could tell where Dean had tried to use bleach on them.

“Bloodstains?” John asked. At Dean's nod, John chuckled. “Mind if I show you a trick your mother taught me?”

After a minute, Dean shook his head. John grabbed one of his bloodstained shirts and took it over to the washbasin. Dean frowned and followed him over, curious if nothing else. John hid his smile. The best way to make Dean feel better was to distract him. Give him a puzzle to solve, something to tinker with. He filled the basin with cold water and added a bit of soap. “Soaking is good, but we don't always get the luxury of staying round after a hunt. Especially with both you boys--” John stopped and just breathed for a minute. He hadn't expected it to feel like a bayonet through the ribs.

“Especially with it just being us,” John corrected. He saw Dean's jaw clench and grunted. So much for the distraction. “Little elbow grease never killed anyone, or their clothes.”

Dean mumbled something that sounded very much like “wanna kill something,” before taking the shirt from John and starting to scrub at the stain.

“Son,” John started.

“Don't Dad. I—I got this. Just, lemme alone for awhile.”

* * *

Sam sighed as he saw Dean slowly make his way through the laundromat. He'd thought he'd let Dean sleep, let him conserve his energy since Illinois. In all honesty, he hadn't wanted to leave Dean alone in the room, but his jeans were at the point where they could stand up and walk on their own. There were only so many times you could rinse out underwear before you really needed to add soap.

“Dude, I got this,” Sam said.

Dean snorted and dropped heavily into the chair. “yeah, like you were ever good at laundry.”

“Just because you always did it, didn't mean I can't,” Sam retorted, stuffing clothes into the washer.

“Dude!” Dean snapped and Sam stopped.

“What?” Sam asked, not sure exactly what had prompted Dean's outburst.

“Four years in a fancy college and you still don't know to separate? What's the matter with you?”

Sam glanced over at the pile. Separate what? He'd taken out the underwear and socks. “huh?”

Dean rolled his eyes and grunted as he got up and moved over to the table. “Four piles, genius. Whites, Darks, Blood and everything else.” He started pulling out out clothes, Sam jumped and took over, pushing Dean toward a chair.

“Just...tell me what to do,” Sam said, not liking how just getting up had paled Dean's skin and his breathing changed. He hated this, hated that Dean's heart was giving out, that he wouldn't have a chance to really get to know his brother. Not as actual people, not as adults. He was just starting to realize that there was so much to his older brother he didn't know.

“Ok, ok. You have to pretreat the blood stains. It's best if you do it right after it happens, but the best way is a little soap and cold water.” Dean stopped and glanced at him. “Can't believe living with a girl and you didn't figure that one out Sammy.”

In his defense, it was the middle of the night, but it still took him a few minutes to figure out what Dean was saying. When he did, Dean smirked at him and Sam turned bright red. “I wasn't allowed to touch her clothes. One time I tried to be nice and she said I ruined all her bras.”

Dean laughed and Sam smiled. He hadn't realized how little his brother laughed, really laughed. Even if it was at his expense. “Bras are tricky, and girls are so damn protective of them.”

Sam wondered when Dean had ever been around a woman long enough to know that, but didn't question it. Maybe it was because it was the middle of the night, maybe it was because it was a mundane chore they done all their lives, but Dean was talking and Sam was determined to listen.

“Dude, you gonna stand there all night? Seriously, fill the washer, man,” Dean said, and Sam shook his head. Laundry, right.

“Ok, Master of the Laundry, now what?” Sam asked, as he filled the washer with quarters and clothes.

“Now, you put in the soap and let it go. You and Jess ever...never mind.” Dean said, shaking his head.

“What?” Sam asked. It was weird, but talking about Jess wasn't that painful. Maybe it was overshadowed by possibly losing Dean, or maybe it'd been six months and the wounds weren't as fresh. He wondered if that made him a bad person; he was pretty sure the Mom's death was still just as painful for Dean and Dad as the day it had happened.

“Just wondering if you ever figured out the spin cycle,” Dean said, with a smirk.

“The...dude, I'm not answering that!” Sam yelped, tossing a pair of dirty underwear at his brother. They had, once, when they were still in the dorms. It'd been late, like tonight, Jess had ambushed him and then convinced him to fuck her while the spin cycle was going. It'd been sexy as hell, if for no other reason than there was no way to lock the dorm's laundry room.

“Sammy...you sly dog. Never thought you had it in you,” Dean said, tossing the boxers back at him.

“Yeah, well, there's a lot you don't know about me.” The words were out before he'd thought them through.

Dean nodded, “Yeah, I'm getting that.” He glanced around then got up, “Don't ruin my favorite shirt, ok?”

“Dean...” Sam said, hating that he'd ruined whatever had been going on between the two of them.

“S'all right, Sammy,” The smirk was back, the one that hid a multitude of sins and hurts. “Besides, you're actually doing the laundry. I'm thinking this is sort of weird hallucination.”

“Jerk,” Sam said without thinking.

“Bitch,” but there was genuine smile on Dean's face.

Sam smiled. “We should hit Nebraska tomorrow.”

Dean nodded. “Hey Sammy, don't forget to separate the reds from the whites. Pink underwear is so not what the chicks want to see.”


End file.
